


Hint of a Memory

by cat_77



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Injury, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lived a quiet life on a quiet farm near a quiet town.  That all changed the day a redhead came knocking at his door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hint of a Memory

**Author's Note:**

> The short little fic that got away from me.
> 
> * * *

Not much happened in the tiny town of Jackson. Named after the great Andrew and not because he ever set foot in the place but because of its abundance of hickory trees, it was one of the many "blink and you'll miss it" pieces of Americana littering the South. There were sizable pastures of farmland and small little homesteads and a few places that settled for in between and people gave each other their own space and didn't pry much into others' business unless said business was forced upon them.

So it was a bit of a surprise when a pretty redhead came knocking at the farmhouse door well past sundown on a rainy Monday evening, looking tired and worn and with mud stains up her fancy trousers and coating a set of shoes that just looked impractical for the country life. Her face lit up when Corey answered the door though and she seemed to sigh a true breath of relief that someone was present and accounted for out in the backwoods of nowhere.

Her car had stalled out down the road a bit and her phone was just getting no reception, not that there was going to be anyone nearby to call in these parts anyway. Corey left her wrapped up in a blanket with Aunt May and took a flashlight to go see if he could get it working again. He didn't have any real training, not really, but he'd always been good with his hands and figuring things out. He'd fixed May's tractor more than once, and her beat up old truck as well, so he at least knew his way around a machine which was better than nothing. The engine was well and truly shot though, and she must have hit a stone because the left front tire was partially deflated.

He gathered a suitcase from the impossibly small trunk and noted it matched the leather bag she had slung over her shoulder when she arrived and thought of how Aunt May had matching luggage too, only hers was green and ancient in comparison, as he trudged back to the house.

May fussed over him when he got back, like he knew she would, but she also had some hot chocolate on, like he knew she would, so it all evened out. The woman seemed worried about him bothering with her things, and then even more worried when she noticed his slight limp, but he knew May would explain things to her, that leaving her alone in her car when there was a perfectly good spare bed on the second floor simply would not be tolerated.

May was not actually his aunt and he knew that as well as she did, but she was a kind old woman who worked years as a nurse in the local clinic and took him in after his accident, offering him a place to stay and looking after his wounds in exchange for him doing odd chores around the homestead. She called the chores her version of PT and he called them things the old lady simply could not manage on her own anymore, not since her husband died a few years back. He hadn't been able to find a real job, not that there was much worth offering right now anyway, not without leaving and venturing out to the great unknown. It just seemed easier to stay there and help her out what with not having much to get back to of his own, and soon enough the two of them fell into a routine.

He listened and sipped his drink as May gave a general rundown of the place, and then slipped off to his room just behind the kitchen. His leg ached more than he let on, and he took a few aspirin from where he had tucked them away. He'd picked up an extra bottle last time they were in town and kept them in his drawer. It meant May didn't fret about him as much, though he'd be surprised if she didn't suspect something at this point.

The redhead seemed to think something was going on, but was either kind enough to let the matter drop or it simply didn't register as important on her hoity-toity big city view of the world. He heard the creak of the floorboards that signaled the woman being shown what was to be her room for the night, and the open and close of the door that held the spare linens, and figured she was getting settled in. He washed up and climbed into bed and left a note to remind himself to go look at her car again in the morning.

* * *

He awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs and the scratch of a spatula against a pan. He had his daily brief moment of panic of where he was and what he was doing, accented by the fact that the sun was shining through the window which meant he had actually slept through the night for a change.

He quickly got dressed and joined the two ladies at the table, Jack the dog laying at his feet and begging for treats. The woman offered him a coffee which he gladly took and she must have made it because it tasted different than May's usual stuff. Not a bad different, just a little sweeter and less bitter than what he was normally used to.

She asked if he knew if there was a mechanic in town and he said that he'd take a look at it himself now in the light to see if he could fix it. She must have took him at his word because, later, she made a call on her cell that was working almost fine now but didn't call for service and instead just told her colleagues that she'd be late.

She insisted on walking back with him to the car, and this time did so in far more sensible clothing. She still wore a shirt that was probably meant to go with some suit, but wore it with jeans and tennis shoes and handled the muck just fine, even with Jack jumping and occasionally splashing beside her.

He looked at the car itself with its sleek lines and all the amenities and knew he had never seen such a fine machine before even as he knew his way around it as soon as the hood was popped. He was in the middle of thinking of how all machines broke down to the same basic principles when it all came down to it, and how Aunt May should really upgrade her old truck sooner rather than later, when the woman broke the silence.

"So, do you think you can fix it?" she asked. She didn't toss her hair or pretend to chew on her fingernail like Lucy from the feed store, but he got the distinct impression that she was flirting with him, her behavior just a tad too casual and comfortable for strangers.

Maybe that's how things were in the city, but he kind of doubted it. He was going to keep with his country manners just fine though, so he nodded and drawled, "I believe so, ma'am."

She smiled, big and wide and it was pretty but he knew better than to think about that part. "Wonderful!" she beamed. She then pushed up the sleeves of her expensive shirt and asked, "What can I do to help?"

He didn't think there was much, to be honest, especially after she looked confused as to where a jack would be to hoist up the car so he could put the spare on to replace the now much flatter tire. After figuring it out himself, he suggested, "Why don't you go back up to the homestead and see if May needs anything? I usually help her feed the chickens by now, and I'm sure she could use the company."

"Are you giving me the brush off?" she laughed.

"I would not dare to do such a thing, ma'am," he insisted, but let her hear the humor in his tone. She didn't seem hurt by the action, and seemed to know her own limitations.

She did, however, see right through his avoidance of her name. "Nat," she said, offering her hand. "You might have missed it last night and it is far more personable than constantly calling me ma'am."

He took the hand easily enough, but did offer a winked, "Of course, ma'am," in return. She shook her head and rolled her eyes but did pause long enough when he offered, "I'm Corey."

She blinked as if expecting something else though he could have sworn May had made introductions the night before. His memory was not always the best, especially when it came to recitation of details versus action, so he just took it as either her not remembering or May herself forgetting in her old age. Regardless, "Nat" covered for it quickly enough and waved her goodbyes as she headed back up the way, Jack torn between following her or staying at his side.

* * *

He didn't get the car fixed that day. May had exactly two horses and one was a troublemaker. Bozo, as she liked to call him, chose that day to knock free a part of the fence and escape, nearly trampling the entire chicken coop in the process. Nat seemed to understand even as she asked if she could get a ride into town the next day because her phone kept fritzing in and out and she hoped the coverage would be better there. The ride would cut into his car-fixing time, but they needed a few staples anyway, possibly more than a few as they were feeding an extra mouth.

She helped make dinner that night in thanks and he noticed a bit of red thread that looked suspiciously like the rope that held Bozo's gate together on her sleeve, and wondered just how close to the galloping idiot she had gotten and wasn't mentioning and if that played a role in her desire for a little more civilization.

He didn't go straight to bed that night, but took a light and wandered the property, locking Jack inside to avoid the distraction. Something was spooking the animals more than Bozo's day out and even the much calmer Bubbles was uneasy. He patted the mare along her forelock and offered her an apple and continued his rounds. He found himself at the old barn that really wasn't much more than a beat up oversized old shed at this point, but found the padlock still in place as always and nothing around it amiss.

He shrugged and made his way back to the house, verified with Aunt May that all looked well even if the animals didn't think so. They debated a possible storm on its way and he headed off to bed.

He woke soon enough slick with sweat and with images he'd rather not have in his head. Blood and metal and dirt and impact and his bones seemed to still feel the reverberation of the force while he lay there silently panting and trying to set his heart to rights. He didn't immediately fall back asleep after that, never did after any dream involving the accident, but lay there and listened to the quiet creaks of the house, the rustle of the leaves outside his window. He could hear May's snuffles and snores and the shuffle of what was probably Nat up above him. He hoped he hadn't woke her and eventually drifted off to sleep again debating between offering her an apology if he did or if he should let it be if she was having troubles of her own in an unknown place.

He did, however, wonder why he heard a name decidedly not his own this time around, and why it matched the one Nat accidentally called him earlier in the day.

* * *

He did all his morning chores bright and early while May whipped up some breakfast. The truck was a two-seater and so Aunt May drew up a list of what they needed and offered to stay behind. It wasn't like she could ride in the back and there was no way either of them would make their guest do it, and he needed a part for the car and another for the tractor and he just didn't think either one of them would know which ones to get. May shoved some cash in Corey's hand and gave him a peck on the cheek before she waved them off from the porch. He felt uneasy leaving her behind, especially with the unsettledness from last night, but knew she had lived this life far longer than he had and could manage just fine.

Nat made her calls while he shopped for parts. She bought hers but he insisted on buying the one for the tractor. She insisted in turn on buying him lunch in thanks, though she certainly played with her phone more than made any smalltalk while they waited for their food. He eyed the beer she ordered but stuck to soda despite her offer, knowing May frowned upon even those little vices and he would never risk driving after having zero tolerance anyway.

They did chat a little about the meal and about what food he needed to buy and she slipped and said the wrong name again but, after the dream from the night before, he called her on it and asked, "That name - it's the second time you've called me that - is he someone special?"

She seemed to study him for a good minute, long enough for him to wonder if he had crossed a line, before she admitted, "Clint was a good friend of mine. You remind me a lot of him. Well, not the beard, but the eyes." He swiped at his chin self-consciously, the bristles tickling his palm. It had been easier to grow it while his hands were healing, barely able to hold a spoon let alone a razor. "You definitely have his eyes," she finished, as if that settled that, and maybe it did.

He took her at her word and let her move on to other topics including the car, which he had to admit would likely not be fixed until tomorrow at the earliest because they'd get back too late to do much but finish up the chores. A farm was a farm, small as it was, and there was work to be done on it. She seemed okay with that, and mentioned that she may have possibly already told her cohorts that she'd be there for a few more days. Now she did that thing that Jen from the gas station did and looked up at him with this little tilt to her head and he got the feeling he was being flirted with again.

He smiled back, but left it at that. If she was already getting him confused with another that'd be no basis for any sort of relationship, even the one-night ones Jen kept playing at. He was fixing her car and he hoped they could be friendly-like if not actually friends, but had a feeling she was going to forget about him the moment she got back on the road. She had lost a tad bit of her big city attitude, but Aunt May said you can never take the city out of a girl, not completely, so he settled for being nice and letting anything else be a surprise.

He bought the things on May's list, surprised when Nat met him at the truck with a bag of her own. "No peeking, that'd be telling," she chided, which he took to mean she planned on making them dinner or maybe breakfast during her stay. They loaded the bags in the back of the truck and he hoped she hadn't been foolish enough to get something breakable as the ride back would be less than smooth and, besides, having chickens meant you rarely ran short on eggs.

They made more smalltalk on the way back, but he noticed her playing with her phone again. She caught him catching her and had the grace to look guilty. "I was trying to see exactly where it cuts out so you don't have to go all the way into town just for me," she admitted.

The little lines disappeared only about a mile from their property, which meant she only had to go for a short-ish walk to be connected with the world again. He wasn't sure why that was so important to her since he rather liked the quiet of a countryside that barely got a television signal on a good day, but reminded himself that city and country were as different as those two mice in that children's book tucked away on the shelf in the living room.

They unloaded their goods and he finished up some of the heavier lifting jobs May just could not handle on her own despite her insistence she could. He checked to make sure Bozo and Bubbles hadn't destroyed the repairs he had made the day before and was pleased to see the gate holding well. As he walked back to the house, he swore he saw something out of the corner of his eye, but turned to find nothing save for the leaves on the trees and bushes lining the west side of the property looking well and disturbed. He swore under his breath about wolves and foxes, not actually hating the animals but not liking the damage they could do to a coop. The guilty part of his mind made him look about to make sure May didn't hear him, though he fought the urge to put change in the swear jar all the same. Technically it was all her money anyway, but it didn't change the whole penance factor and the need to watch a mouth that had urges she just didn't approve of in her presence.

He returned to find Jack dancing at Nat's feet while she cooked up something that smelled delicious. Given that May was not protesting someone else using her stove, even his good Auntie must have been impressed.

"It's actually really simple," Nat insisted, and proceeded to show them both how a few additions made something ordinary seem like something so much more.

He took a bite and the favors exploded on his tongue, warm and familiar with just that little extra edge of something different. "It's Laotian," she explained. "Well, the spices are close to it. I know someone who makes this in a way that puts mine to shame, but this is as close as you are going to get for now."

Corey had a feeling she was talking about that man friend of hers again, Clint. He didn't take the bait though she seemed to look at him almost expectantly. "It's good," he confirmed, and that seemed enough, even though May insisted on a glass of milk to cut the heat.

He washed the dishes in thanks for the meal but she insisted on drying them. He was pulling on a jacket and reaching for the rifle kept just behind the kitchen door when he caught her watching him curiously. "Something's been spooking the animals, more at night than any other time it seems," he explained in answer to her unasked question. He noted a wary surprise wash across her features, and admitted, "Probably fox or wolf. A shot is enough to scare them off without doing any real harm."

She nodded and her face settled into something resembling relief. "Do you want company?" she offered, which rather surprised him to be honest.

He shook his head though, images of her fancy shoes and sleek car dancing about his head. "Naw, I got it. You keep Aunt May company, see if you can get her to turn in at a reasonable hour instead of staying up late with her magazines." He had just picked up more that day, so it was likely a lost cause, but it would keep them both busy at the very least.

He left before she had a chance to argue with him, though he was willing to bet she was tempted to follow anyway, just to be contrary. He heard the creek of the door behind him and was ready to sigh and find a kind and polite way to cuss her out for sticking her nose in business she knew nothing about. Instead, Jack the dog came trotting at his side and he was forced to crack a smile. She got her way of him not being alone, and he got his way of tending to the rounds in relative peace. A compromise, whether he wanted one or not.

They were short one hen, but he found her under the coop of all places. He would have probably missed her if Jack hadn't run under the stilts and rustled her up. The horses were fine, but something in his gut told him to check the shed. The lock was in place, but at an odd angle that wasn't just from the wind. The weeds around it also looked like they had seen better days, the smell of recently crushed vegetation flooding his nostrils.

It would appear they had something more than foxes or wolves after all. With the exception of a very large wolf, for which he'd had seen more evidence than this, this was done by a person, which meant someone was sneaking around the homestead. He'd have thought it was maybe their guest, but she had been with him all day. It could have been May, but she avoided the shed unless she had to, and would have avoided stepping on the little purple clover she liked so well.

He raised the gun and stared out into the darkness, eyes locked on what he knew to be where the leaves had been moving earlier that day. "You best be leaving this place alone lest you want trouble," he spoke out into the nothingness. Jack accented the threat with a bark that was less than vicious, but the sentiment was there. 

He held his position for a good while, waiting to see if whoever it was would show themselves. When they did not, and when his leg ached too much for him to stay out much longer, he lowered the weapon and slowly headed back towards the house, glancing over his shoulder more than once along the way. He wasn't going to tell Aunt May about this, not yet, but he most definitely needed to check on some things in the morning.

* * *

The remainder of the evening was far from restful. He tried to sleep, but his mind kept filling with dreams of things he'd rather not dream. Add to that the fact that any little creak of a floorboard or rustle of wind had his eyes snapping open, and he was down right exhausted come morning.

He had a job to do though, and more than one at that. He didn't taste his breakfast, but he tasted the moisture in the air when he ran through his morning chores. Even with the threat of the storm overhead, he didn't immediately go fix the car, but instead made one last round near the shed. Nothing had changed from the night before, but nothing felt one hundred percent right either, so he found himself looking over his shoulder at the edge of where the property faded to trees and brambles even as he made his way to wrap up the repairs, Jack at his side.

He opened the hood to get started, or finished as the case may be, and had to take a moment and just stare. There was a spark plug not quite sitting where it was supposed to be. When he picked it up, the casing was cracked straight through and he was sure as he could be that it had not been like that just the day before else he would have picked up another one when they had gone into town. He knew his memory wasn't what it was supposed to be though, May had told him that enough for it to sink in as a reality, so there was a chance, slim as it may be, that he had simply missed that one small thing in the mess of everything else.

He didn't want to waste more time going back to the store and he certainly didn't want to have to explain to their guest that they needed yet another thing, so he pocketed the broken one to see if he might have a spare laying around the barn or with the pile of stuff May's husband had left when he passed away. William had been mechanically inclined, or so it would seem, and had parts and pieces everywhere, despite May's best attempts at a clean up job. Whatever he found might not be in perfect condition, but it would be better than nothing. Besides, Nat seemed like the practical type, to a degree, and he was willing to bet the paycheck he didn't have that she would take her nice fancy car to a nice fancy shop once she got back to civilization.

It was well past lunch when the storm rolled finally rolled in. Save for the single spark plug, he was fairly certain everything was in working order. He grabbed his gear and headed back, fat drops of rain starting to soak in through the flannel of his shirt along the way. 

He put his toolbox in the main barn where he usually did, and took the chance to look through William's old gear to match up the plug. He left the doors open and something decidedly not thunder or lightning caught his attention outside. Dark, fast, and low to the ground, but he was fairly certain it was not a fox or wolf based on the size and the subtle reflection of what looked to be glass or metal and definitely not eyes or teeth. Besides, Jack was not the brightest of animals and he'd have gone after something small and furry even if it was larger than himself. When it came to people though, he was a good judge of character and stuck close to those he trusted, much like he was doing now.

The rifle May knew about was back at the house, but he'd found a spare tucked in with William's things some time back, latched but not locked in its case and in fairly decent condition. He grabbed that and tucked some slugs into his pocket and into its barrel. He checked it in the shadow of the doors and made sure it was good and ready when he stepped back out into the rain.

The shape had headed towards the trees, away from the barn and towards the old shed. There was a fair bit of open land to traverse to get there on either side of the house that stood in the middle, but he knew that land well enough to trust his steps and his stride even in the mounting mud.

A noise caught his attention just in front of the house and he worried that someone had already gotten there before him. He whipped around, rifle at the ready, imagining the worst. Instead, Nat peeked her head outside the door and eyed him with the gun, a muddy mutt at his side. Before he could give her some empty platitude or worthless excuse, her cheerful smile turned to something far more dour and he dare say deadly. "Fuck," she growled, an odd accent to her tone. "Stay there and try not to get shot," she ordered before she darted back into the house.

He heard her shout something to Aunt May that sounded suspiciously like a direction to hide and he didn't know why but he expected her to reappear with the other shotgun in hand. Instead she came back out stripped down to the tank she had been wearing under a white button-up and wielding two much smaller and much fancier weapons. "Where are they?" she demanded when she joined him in the rain. She slid a clip in with practiced ease and glanced around into the growing darkness.

He took a moment to pause and blink and was in no way finding her presence and attitude attractive or comforting except for the part where he really did. "They headed for the shed; I think they've been there before," he finally answered at her look of impatience.

They took a total of about three steps in that direction before the first shot rang out and wood splintered from the siding behind them. Jack whimpered and she pressed them both down and back behind the relative safety of one of the porch supports and fired seemingly blindly around the other side. There was the sound of impact though, right before a whole new round of a whole lot more shots rang out.

"Those are definitely coming from the woods," he pointed out, confirming his earlier suspicions.

She nodded in agreement and then headed in a decidedly different direction. "Where in the world are you going?" he asked, hoping she could hear him as the wind began to pick up.

"We need something from the car," she replied. It sounded like she added that it may be more than one thing, but the first part didn't make sense so he wasn't sure about the second. He'd been at that car for days and there wasn't anything there of importance in so far as he could see, and why would she leave something so valuable so unattended in the first place?

He followed her anyways because the woman should not be alone, armed or not, when unknowns were floating about, especially when those unknowns seemed content to continue to shoot at them both. She popped the trunk and tugged at what he had thought was where the wall of the trunk met with the seat of the inside. It came loose and he caught sight of a shiny black case right before he nearly caught a bullet to the ear.

He dropped down and fired both rounds and fumbled in his pocket to prepare to reload. There was no way his handful of slugs were going to hold off whoever was after them and so he made the executive decision to get to the hell out of there and get to the ammo back at the barn. "This way!" he ordered, no longer caring what his companion found so precious as to risk her blood for.

She surprised him by following him and laying down cover fire. She reached to close at least one of the doors behind her and a noise caught his attention in the usually relatively quiet barn right about the time she shouted, "Clint, behind you!"

He dropped down and fired a shot at pretty much the exact same time she did, a man in full tactical gear sailing a good foot backwards from the force of impact.

"You're still calling me that name," he griped as he looked around for something else to use as a weapon and filled his pockets with what he could. A single shotgun and the two handguns she had were all fine and dandy, but he was practical enough to think they were clearly outmatched and needed something more.

He swore he heard her grumble that there was a reason for the name, but it was drowned out soon enough by another crack of thunder and another burst of gunfire. Someone was coming at them from the front, and another from the back, and the only thing he could think of was to go up because then at least there was a chance to escape through the hayloft. The landing may be less than fully soft as there was not nearly enough piled at the bottom outside, but at least it would be a means of escape, so there was that.

He shoved Jack behind the workbench and ordered him to stay before he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her towards the ladder, surprised when she barely flinched at the action though she did shrug him off and insist he go first. He clambered upwards and less than silently cursed the leg that wanted to give way in the action as of course it chose now to act up because he really needed it not to.

She shot the man coming in the front and he shot the man coming from the back while he was halfway up the ladder and he had a brief moment of thinking they were in the clear and could just climb back down and get to the house to call the sheriff and let them sort it out before she urged him to continue because several more attackers were on their way.

"What the hell did you do?" he asked as he tripped up the rungs.

"Corey Meadows doesn't have the security clearance to know," she answered, pushing him from behind. He flopped forward and scurried out of the way so she could follow him and she added, "Suffice it to say, it appears to have really pissed them off."

Up in the safety of the loft, she did a once over as if to secure the place before she knelt down to dig in that fancy case of hers. She pulled on a pair of what looked to be rather bulky fingerless gloves, at least one of which glowed with lines of blue when she activated some hidden switch. He had no idea what the other one did, but he was distracted by four more men coming in the front and what sounded like an equal number from the rear. "Ready?" he whispered, even as he wondered if he should shoot first and give their position away, or wait until the bullets started coming at them.

She answered both inquiries at the same time by emptying the remainder of a clip into the men approaching them and sliding another into place. He shook his head and started firing as well, the recoil of the shotgun and the need to reload repeatedly slowing his pace.

He left her side when Bozo whinnied in a worrying way and he turned to find at least one man using the stall wall to try to lever himself up to the loft. He fired once and knocked the man backwards but was rewarded with the disappointing click of an empty barrel when he tried to fire again. He reached in his pocket and knew this had better end soon because he simply did not have enough to hold them all off, but breathed a silent sigh of relief when a much smaller caliber finished the job so he didn't have to.

He whipped around to thank her and found her standing there with a flick of her red hair and smirk fully in place and he could almost hear her confident snark, but whatever she was going to say was drowned out by the scrape of a boot on the ladder.

A man in black lunged at her and he managed a strangled, "Tasha!" in warning. Her eyes widened and she dropped down and did something that looked incredibly acrobatic and complex but not quite deadly enough.

The two wrestled and he picked off a third and then he heard through yet another rumble her shout of, "Take the shot!"

Electricity raced off the lines of blue on her wrist, answering at least what the thing did, but all he could concentrate on was now easily he could hit her instead of the guy now pinning her down and he tried to get over there to at least knock the guy in the head with the butt of his rifle but the guy he'd just shot grabbed on to his ankle and tried to yank him down and he heard an almost pained, "Clint, take the damn shot."

He still liked the pistol-whipping with a rifle idea but chose to use it on the ankle-biter instead and then fired at the still flailing melee on the other side of the loft, the black clad man collapsing in a neat heap that she tossed off of herself haphazardly.

After reveling in the fact that she was safe and sound, he reveled in the fact he succeeded. "I- I made it," he blinked.

She rolled her eyes and brushed dust and hay off of her now red-tinged tank. "Of course you did," she told him, sounding oddly almost chiding. "You never miss, not when it counts."

He blinked again and this time had flashes of targets both paper and human crumbling, of blood and splinters and sparks and fire that blinded his eyes, only to disappear and fade back to the damp darkness of the barn as his eyes refocused. "Yeah, well don't count on that. It's pretty damn easy to miss when you're out of bullets." He wasn't technically out, but he was a lot closer than he'd like to be and it was an uncomfortable feeling as he doubted they were out of the woods yet what with not yet actually reaching the woods where these guys seemed to be coming from.

"When you're done with that, try this," she told him. He watched as she reached in the shiny black case again, this time coming up with a misshapen bit of metal and wire. She tossed it at him and he caught it easily enough. He was still trying to figure it out as his hand fit neatly into a grip that seemed made specifically for it. His arm shot outward on instinct and metal unfolded and snapped into place, wire growing taught with the action.

"A bow?" he asked incredulously. "You want me to give up a shotgun with limited ammo for something with no ammo at all?"

"I would never leave you high and dry like that, Barton," she promised. She pulled what had to be the final item given its size from the case. It was some sort of high tech quiver with some seriously short arrows. He was about to make a remark that would no doubt be cutting and sarcastic and possibly inappropriate given the company of a lady about their size, but she keyed a sequence on the side and each and every one twisted upwards to full length, the quiver itself growing to steady them along the way. 

He settled for a huffed, "Still limited ammo," instead. He eyed them when she slid them over and let his curiosity get the better of him when he asked, "How'd they do that anyway?"

"Gift from Stark," she shrugged. "He thought it might make them easier to transport. Still in prototype stage, but usable."

And he could see Tony's reasoning even as he could see the design being laid out in glowing images in that huge lab of his. Smaller, more portable for rushed or covert trips, but with the same effectiveness when expanded to their true size. He shook his head trying to place that. How did he know this man, this Mr. Stark? How did he know the guy's first name was Tony, or what his lab would look like? How did he know to slide the quiver into place, its weight a familiar presence across his back?

His confusion must have shown because there was a flash of sorrow across Natasha's, no, Nat's face, for a split second before it smoothed out to something impassive and expressionless. "You're in there, Clint. Somewhere. We'll get you back or burn the world trying," she promised.

"But..." he started, but wasn't sure how to finish.

There was another flicker of emotion, this one something far more personal, before she said, "You called me Tasha, you took the shot, and you hold that bow as if it were your own because it is. Your name is Clint Barton and you are a friend and teammate and a hell of a lot more." She cocked her head to the side at a new noise, likely the next wave arriving. "And, as usual, someone wants you dead."

He tilted his head, considering, but still could not make complete sense out of everything. It was too much at once. Too much strangeness, too much change, too much that seemed familiar and terrifyingly different all at the same time. Too much danger in the quiet safety of the life he had finally slotted himself into.

The noise was growing closer though, soon the barn would be fully surrounded and they would be trapped inside with limited weaponry and limited choices. It would be easy enough for the faceless enemy to set fire to the place, to light it up even with the storm and smoke them out or let them die trapped inside like the poor animals locked in their pens.

He eyed the opening in the loft and frowned. The chute wasn't set up and it was a sizable distance down. The landing was going to hurt like hell, but the alternative was not an option, not really, so he calculated the trajectory needed while his companion took out anyone dumb enough to slip into her line of sight.

Most of the soldier-like attackers were gathering around the front and rear entrances for the attack, and only two seemed to even think of checking the sides. The rifle would be too loud and warn of their intent, the armed men would be on them before they even hit the ground. His fingers drifted towards the quiver, the polymer fletchings tickling the tips. Decision made without really thinking about it, he let off two shots in quick succession, two figures dropping near soundlessly into the mud and gunk.

Nat was at his side, doing her own calculations for the jump. She eyed the hits and patted his arm lightly. "You're still in there," she insisted, right before she pushed him over the edge.

To be fair, it was more of a nudge. A nudge with definite intent and the unspoken message for him to go now else she really would shove him, but a nudge nonetheless. He landed less than gracefully but still better than he first anticipated, his knee screaming in protest with his ankle threatening to join in the serenade. She landed beside him, the smell of musty wet grasses filling his nostrils, and shook the worst of it off to look relatively unscathed by the whole adventure thus far. Jack wiggled through a gap in the planks and yipped once before settling for throwing up moldy straw with the wag of his tail when she calmed him with a scritch behind the ears. She motioned towards the shed and he nodded in understanding, and they were nearly at the house again before the first shots ricocheted around them.

They both turned to take on the approaching attackers, but she placed a hand on his arm to hold his shot. "Save your arrows, the reinforcements are here," she told him. He followed her gaze skyward, water streaming into his eyes, to see two figures literally drop from the air itself between them and their pursuers. 

The one with long blond hair and what looked to be a cape of all things swung forward with what to be a hammer of all things to knock back three men at once and he really had to pause and wonder if his bottle of aspirin had gone bad. He shook that off though when the one dressed in head to toe red metal shot beams of light from his hands to take out at least a half dozen before landing in a dramatic pose, showering them all with clumps of mud.

"Where are Rogers and Banner?" the woman beside him demanded. Natasha, his mind supplied, but that couldn't be right as she had said her name was Nat but maybe that was just the shortened version? Then again, she had forgotten to mention the army of men after her or the fact that she had two _flying friends_ that could have gotten her out of this backwater town at any time she needed, so he wasn't quite sure what to think of her right now.

"Incoming with extra support," the thing with a gold mask atop the red outfit answered, voice tinny through the metal. At her look, he held his hands out and shrugged. "It's Barton - who knows how much trouble he got into without us?" There was the sound of the blond guy's hammer hitting a Kevlar protected chest that just seemed to accentuate the accusation. "He is back with us, right? Because he totally didn't recognize us at the diner and..."

Natasha, as that was the only name that felt right, shook her head. "It's complicated," she replied. "His memories aren't there but his skills are, which is good because we're in the middle of a damn battle, Stark."

The man seemed to consider that for about half a second before he blew the shit out of another three guys, Jack happily trying to nip at his heels in the process.

Corey shook his head. "Who the fuck are you and why is everyone trying to kill us?" he demanded as he readied another arrow.

"Seriously? If you don't know who I am, you've been living in a cave - scratch that as I've been to caves where they've definitely known me. Now I know this is the backwoods, but I see a house and am picking up enough satellite connections around here to know that you're not actually in the Paleolithic era," the man replied. He flipped up his golden face mask to reveal a real and living man with a dark beard and worried eyes beneath it - not an android or robot then. Those eyes seemed to search him for a moment, and clearly did not like what they saw, not completely, before the mask slid back down and the tinny voice returned to say, "And everyone is trying to kill us because apparently that's our new default setting in life." 

Natasha snorted at the joke - yet another thing he didn't understand - and the man she called Stark that rather matched his hint of a memory from earlier fired at someone who had made their way up to the loft of the barn and was attempting to use it as a sniper's nest.

"Please don't let him kill the horses," Corey muttered, holding on to his name as apparently that was all he knew for certain at this point.

"Are the chickens fair game? Because I think Thor might be getting a bit peckish from the flight," the armored man called over his shoulder as he prepared to fire again.

He took a moment to ponder who in this day and age would name their child Thor, and then took a moment to duck down at the sound of a rather large bullet sailing by him. His rifle was left in the barn so as not to risk accidental discharge in the jump, but Aunt May's was not and she was currently standing on the porch with the thing in her hands, the pockets of her housecoat bulging with little cylinders of metal.

"No, they are not. Now don't just stand there, get a move on!" she urged and cocked the barrel to reload.

"Whoa, Granny's got a shotgun!" Stark said, whipping around into a defensive position.

"Mister Stark, meet Aunt May," he introduced, lining up a shot with his bow. The arrow flew true and he couldn't help the subtle sense of accomplishment, especially since it was accented by a proud smile from the woman who had watched over him for so long.

"First, this is totally going down in the books as the day you actually called me 'Mister Stark' and not something a little more shall we say imaginative? Second, the family resemblance is uncanny, really. Who the hell is she for real?" Stark demanded. He didn't lower the glowing hand raised at the old woman, but did shoot a beam out of the other to take down someone who dared to interrupt their little interlude.

Natasha did not level her gun so much as simply not lower it from where it was aimed at May. "Choose a side," she directed.

The old woman stood there dumbfounded for about a second, gray-white hair plastered to her tan cheeks where it had escaped her usually neat bun. The shotgun dipped, but she did not fully let go of it when she replied, "I stand by my boy."

Natasha nodded in acceptance and that seemed to be the end of that as the men attacking them attempted to advance again, May taking a step back towards the door to the house and the shelter of the rickety porch. At least it did until Stark muttered, "She does know Clint's not actually hers, right? And not actually a child even though he acts like one ninety percent of the time?"

"I'm not daft," she insisted, loading another round from her pockets. "He's a good boy who needed some help and helped me out in return. Didn't know his name so I called him after my brother. Though I did think he was brighter than to stand in the middle of a field and get shot at." She pushed open the door and urged, "Get yourselves inside, fancy suit and all, before they get lucky and kill you."

Natasha shook her head and ducked to fire off another shot. "Clint thinks they're after something in the shed. We need to secure that before they do."

"I knew William should have destroyed that thing," May muttered, earning more than a single raised eyebrow. She took a step forward as if to join them, then was pulled free from the doorway and bodily shielded by Natasha when the attackers finally realized there was a house they could destroy as well as a barn.

Tony, as Stark's first name came back to him, returned fire, and soon enough Corey was mourning the main staircase as splinters imbedded themselves in walls and carpets. "You know what I said about the horses? That goes double for her actual home," he griped.

He expected snark or attitude back, but instead got a nod of, "Understood. We'll try to lead them away."

He was going to ask who he meant by "we'll" but it was answered when the blond man came up and laid an incredibly massive hand on his shoulder. "Friend Barton, it is good to see you well," the man announced. He then plucked a black-clad man off of Tony as if he were nothing more than a speck of dirt and tossed him a fair distance into the surrounding field. "I shall endeavor to protect the home of the one who protected you," he promised and then stepped away to do just that.

May blinked a few times and he was fairly certain it was not just from the rain, and the motioned with her rifle towards their goal. "Shed," she urged, voice higher and tighter than anything he ever remembered, and they easily followed.

They were only a few yards away from their target, using the side for protection, when more men came seemingly out of the sky itself. Rifle and bow were raised, but surprisingly Natasha did not alter her aim as she concentrated on the men on the ground instead. "The black outfits with the SHIELD logo are friendlies, the ones with the lightning bolt are not," she explained.

He wasn't positive what a SHIELD logo was, but figured it was probably the barely visible black on black bird versus the yellow lightning bolt nearly washed out in the rain. Considering the ones with the darker design were shooting at the ones shooting at them, he felt it was a fair assumption.

He looked upwards, knowing they had to come from somewhere, and froze. There was a plane that was not really a plane that hovered above the field, whipping grass, rain, and other sundries every which way from the force of its engines. The sight itself was impressive, but his reaction to it was less than welcomed. 

Flashes of light, images of fire and glass and steel, of sparks and blaring alarms and of ground coming to greet him too damn fast to avoid it filled his vision. His body shook with the imagined impact, his bad leg folding underneath him as it gave out. He heard voices shouting, both in memory and echoing with the current battle. A name, his name, the one Nat insisted on calling him, repeated over and over and over again.

She was calling that name now, voice a thousand miles away. Strong hands pulled him upright, braced him when he threatened to collapse again. "Clint? Agent Barton?" a new voice asked. It was followed by, "Widow, what's wrong with him?"

He came back to reality enough to hear Natasha reply, "I don't know. Check to see if he's been shot."

He wasn't shot, and he struggled to say so even as he felt hands pat him down, hear a call for a medic or maybe a doctor. When he was finally able to push away and focus his eyes through the continuing downpour, he saw a man with a strong jaw and a ridiculous red, white, and mostly blue costume watching him with concerned eyes. "Hawkeye?" he asked, and finally there was a name that seemed right.

"I flew one of those," the newly named Hawkeye said to no one in particular. He watched as two more armed men in black escorted a third man down who had no uniform but did have the sense to wear a neat dark poncho. He looked again at the plane-like thing. He could barely see the window or the pilots behind it, but he knew he would be able to identify every switch and control inside, could feel the support of chair and harness like a ghost across his body.

"Many times," the man in the costume confirmed. He pushed back a hood to reveal blond hair like the other, but far shorter and in a neat, almost military cut that was soon smashed against his head with the force of the rain. He was identifying himself, in a way, making it easier to see who he really was, though the action was wasted as no name came with the visual.

"I crashed one of those," he told him, knowing this with certainty. It wasn't a car crash that laid him up, or even a motorcycle like the one he saw in town that looked so familiar the other day, but one of those. He remembered the pilot strapped in, blood splattered across the helm. He remembered trying to right the thing, pulling hard on the stick and failing. He remembered tugging on a parachute and jumping right when a lucky hit snicked the engine, the gas inside alighting into a ball of fire that threw him off course and into an uncontrolled dive as the chute proved worthless when riddled with holes and flames.

Speaking of holes, there was a possibility of many more being made, this time in his own hide as he was in the middle of a gunfight in the middle of a field, distracted and distracting the others.

He swore he heard Nat comment that he had crashed many times as well, and then explain the concept of a flashback to the man beside him, who seemed to understand far too well. He took a moment to consider this, and then to consider that either the enemy had really crappy aim or something was stopping the bullets from hitting him and then he noticed the ping of metal on metal. He came back to reality, fully this time, to find the man in the costume - Captain America, Steve - holding up an actual physical shield to protect them both.

"Cap?" he asked, not quite sure. It was entirely possible at this point that he had actually been shot and was hallucinating the whole thing. In fact, that made more sense than the jumbled reality he currently existed in with his protective aunt, enemy agents, and a man who dressed and acted like the American legend May had memorabilia of tucked away on her shelves.

"We'll explain what we can later," Steve promised, and he believed him because what else did you do when Captain America made you a promise?

Two agents with the little bird on their shoulder approached and nodded at them both. "Ready for evac, sir?" the one on the left asked.

Steve started to push him towards them, but he dug in and shook his head. "We see this through," he insisted.

He expected a fight, but instead the man in blue let him be. "You heard the man," Steve shrugged. He pointed to the corners of the shed and ordered, "Hold the entrance here, we're going in."

"All of you?" the man on the left asked doubtingly.

The man with the poncho pressed himself up against the shed wall and sighed, "Sure, why not? What could go wrong?"

That was, of course, when a man came up from around the side and nearly got the drop on Natasha. She flipped him and Cap smashed him with his shield in a way that would probably add to everyone's nightmares, tucking the guy in the poncho behind him.

They were at the far side of the shed and needed to get to the front where the lock and the door stood. He thought briefly of just knocking the thing down as surely they had the firepower for it, but something tinged as not-right in his mind when he noticed the bullets bounce off where they should either sink into the wood or rip it to shreds.

There were more shots along the way and a bit of hand to hand involving the woman who he could no longer think of as just Nat and then some more of the blue sparks from her wrists and he discovered that she was really damned good at that and May was a pretty decent shot and that his arrows were great for distances but the bow itself was solid enough to take an impact up close.

There were too many though, seemingly swarms of black like a blight upon the field, and they were a few steps away from the door when May fought to maintain her grip on the slippery stock and to find footing in the mud while digging for a key buried amongst the bullets in her pockets. The thing slipped from her fingers and disappeared into the muck and she did something he never thought he'd ever be witness to and swore profusely, but Natasha shook her head and said, "Leave it. If I can't handle a padlock I deserve to be shot."

"This is no simple padlock," May insisted, earning more than a single set of raised eyebrows at the admission.

The man in the metal suit and the man with the cape swooped down and both took out many of the advancing men before announcing they were headed for the source to put them out of commission and he could only think that, yeah, that was probably for the best.

The two of them provided enough of a delay though, that the man in the poncho knelt beside May and they dug in the mud until they produced something that, upon closer inspection, only roughly estimated a standard key design. May fit it into the lock and slid back the side to reveal a smooth, almost glass surface. She wiped her mud-covered thumb across her housecoat and then pressed it to the screen. A line of blue swiped downwards and then glowed green.

There was a click, but the lock itself did not move. Instead, the rickety looking old doors rolled back smoothly to reveal something far fancier than warped wood and splinters.

"Huh," the man in the poncho said before he stepped out of the way to let May enter first, Jack happily bouncing at her side.

The others followed, the two agents Cap had ordered to man the door staying outside even after the door swung back into place, all gleaming metal and sophistication on the inside.

"William called it 'cloaking' technology, but I think he liked that science fiction of his just a little too much," May explained. She set her shotgun off to the side and wrung the worst of the water out of her housecoat, leaving a puddle of dingy brown on the otherwise relatively white cement floor. She sighed at it and Corey knew she was itching for a mop, never one to like a mess.

The man in the poncho lowered his hood to reveal curly dark hair rather in need of a haircut. He pulled a case from his pocket, and then a pair of glasses from the case, completely ignoring the drips of water than hit the lenses when he put them on. "May I?" he asked, hand already reaching for a switch.

Aunt May nodded and pushed some hair away from her eyes. "You might as well. I don't know what most of it does, or if any of it still works, but that just seems to power the majority of the place, including the lab downstairs," she explained.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Lab?" she asked.

May nodded again. "Like I said, not certain of what is actually down there, but William promised this is a place where I'd be safe. I've used it during tornado season and been lucky enough to survive, even if the homestead needed some work after. There was a time, back when he was still with us, that he keyed some fancy something or another and the barn and the house were safe as well. I've forgotten that, forgotten a lot actually, but still like to come here from time to time to remember him, even if it's all silly and ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous at all, ma'am," Steve told her. She beamed and Corey knew there was no small part of her that was proud to be speaking to an actual American icon, let alone that he agreed with her on something, trivial as it may be.

"Can we see the lab?" Natasha asked. "Maybe we can find whatever it is that they are after, or find a better way to protect what remains," she reasoned, and Corey liked her reasoning even if he had a feeling it was not completely altruistic.

The man with the curly hair had started up what appeared to be some sort of control sequence, screens blinking to life as the room filled with more than just faint red lighting. "The shed itself, and this room alone, it's... it's very impressive," he said, blinking against the displays. "Even if this lab of his were empty, the technology in this room would be enough for certain agencies to be interested."

"Some of it is outdated, and some of it is an interesting take on old ideas," Natasha agreed. She turned to the older woman and asked, "When was the last time this place was actively used, for more than protection from the weather?"

May seemed to think about it for a moment, but it was more likely she didn't want all her secrets known at once than she actually had trouble remembering this time. Natasha had proven herself to be good people though, and Captain America most definitely was, so Corey wasn't surprised when May relented and said, "William passed four years ago now, it will be five in September. Barely a week went by when he wasn't fussing in this place. He loved it, perhaps a little too much at times, but there was no way I could take it from him, not when he thought whatever he did was so important."

That seemed to be that and her hesitation was a thing of the past along with her memories when she led Natasha and her friend down a set of metal steps that lit when she passed, pressing her hand against another panel at a buzzing sound halfway down. Corey would have been lying to say he wasn't interested in what lay hidden down there, but he would also be lying to think he could manage the steps both up and down with his leg in the state it was. He sat down heavily in a surprisingly not that uncomfortable chair and lay his bow across his lap. He stretched his leg outward, but not too far upward, and groaned as the muscles and tendons protested even that.

"Are you okay, Barton?" Steve asked, apparently electing to stay on the upper level with him instead of venturing towards whatever treasures may lay below.

"That name still doesn't feel right," he admitted. He pulled his leg back and then shifted around a bit on the chair, trying to find a way to get at least moderately comfortable. He stopped when he realized it was the best it was going to get and instead settled for scratching just behind Jack's ears the way he liked so. His current companion looked confused as to his actions, so he explained, "Leg's not been right since the accident. It's been months, but nothing seems to work."

Steve made a face. "Clint, it's only been less than two months, barely over a month and a half; just how bad did you hit your head?" He looked concerned, really and truly, and Corey wasn't certain how to answer.

He tried to think back, to piece together what he knew versus what he was told, but he couldn't make sense of it all. May told him he had been laid up for a while, and that his memory had come and gone during that time. She prompted him near every day about his chores until he fell into the routine of it all and he felt like he had been doing them forever. But it would explain why his leg still ached in fits and bursts, and why he had cuts and bruises that just seemed to not want to heal. May jokingly said it was his clumsiness, but, now that he thought about it, usually looked guilty after and offered to cook him his favorites to make up for it. 

If they really were his favorites. He wasn't sure about anything right now save for the men trying to attack and kill them and the people trying to save them and the pain that radiated from ankle to knee and back again.

"It's okay," Steve was saying, likely seeing that he was troubling him. "We can work it all out later, when you're home. Maybe being someplace familiar will help?"

He wanted to say that he was someplace familiar, that he was in the only place he really actually thought he knew. Aunt May was home. She had shared her life with him, took care of him the best she knew, and made him feel like he belonged. But there were times when he'd turn the corner in the kitchen and expect fancy appliances all laid out and waiting instead of a simple stove and sink, times when he'd look up at the weathervane on the roof and wonder what it'd be like to perch up there, climb up even higher and see a true view of the world.

He didn't though. He never did. His leg wouldn't have held out and May would've called him daft for trying. And yet he dreamt of brilliant cityscapes and of looking down to see the crowds below, sometimes bustling about on their way to who knew where, and sometimes sitting patiently in their seats waiting for the next act.

There was so much he didn't know, and so much that seemed to be slipping in at the seams, that his head actively hurt with the effort of it all. He wanted it gone, he wanted it there, and he wanted to know what was real and what was make believe. 

He wanted to be whole again.

He was startled from his reverie when the room echoed with a solid thud that came from the now sealed doorway. "The bad guys knock now?" he asked, only slightly making jest.

Captain America smiled at him and shook his head. "That's SHIELD code, stuff from the good guys," he explained. He poked at something in his ear and shrugged, "The comms stopped working when we crossed the threshold, so they are probably just checking in."

Corey thought it was just as likely that they were wanting to get out of the line of fire, but also thought it was probably bad form to say that aloud. Instead, he struggled to his feet and helped look for the switch to open the doors again, hoping there was some sort of control for how far and how fast.

They managed to get the things open about halfway and, sure enough, one of the men in black with the bird on his shoulder was there. "Stark's been calling for you, sir," he said by way of introduction. "We told him you went in, all of you, but he's still demanding to speak to you directly."

Steve nodded and barely poked his head outside the doorway, finger to his ear. He glanced back at Corey, all wet hair and concern, but turned to look at the sky as he spoke. "Iron Man, this is Rogers, come in." There was a pause and Steve looked as though he was well and truly being chewed out, and like he was rather used to it all. "We're fine... Tony... We are fine. The shed is not a shed, well, not just a shed," he said, looking around and random implements that may or may not have been originally stored there.

Corey had a feeling this could take a while and moved to sit back down even though he could still hear the occasional burst of gunfire and mild explosives, rather glad to be away from the worst of it. He listened in just enough to sort out that the guy with curly hair was named Bruce and that Tony wanted them to save some of the tech for him to review before it was all schlepped off to parts unknown. He wasn't sure he was comfortable about that, really. The tech was William's and he left everything to May and they shouldn't be deciding such things without her say, though he kind of doubted she knew what to do with any of it.

The gunfire sounded suspiciously closer and then Cap grunted and then there was blood staining the floor next to the mud and wet. "Sir?" Corey asked, on his feet and at his side in an instant.

The blue sleeve was torn open and freely dripping red but the man was still standing and pulling in one of the agents who really and truly wasn't. Corey tried to haul in the other agent, but a fallen weapon prevented the doors from closing timely. He kicked it outward and managed to let loose a few arrows, but a lucky incoming shot jammed the door good and rightly and proved the tech only worked well when whole.

The agents kept firing and so did he and Steve tried to get his head far enough outside the protective shielding to call for help without getting said head blown off and then there was the pounding of footsteps behind him and more than a single voice calling out their names.

Steve ducked back in and Natasha stood over the fallen agents and began firing and the guy with glasses started pounding away on a keyboard trying to get the little station to protect them the way it was supposed to. Corey recoiled back when pain erupted in his side, his breath a harsh pant as he fell. He blinked upwards to try to right his vision and grasped just below his ribs, feeling only heat and agony, and when he held his now slippery fingers upwards he knew more red was about to be smeared across May's neat floors.

May herself was at his side, housecoat torn off and pressing it against his wound. There was a crack of sound, far too close, and the room smelled like gunpowder and sweat and like that rose perfume Aunt May liked so much when she suddenly fell limp beside him.

He cried out and Natasha cursed and he forced himself up onto a halfway sitting position even though he wasn't sure he ever be able to move from it again to try to take the shot against the man who may well have killed the one thing that actually made sense even as May grasped weakly at his arm with one hand and her for her shotgun with the other.

The profanity came from someone decidedly not Natasha when Bruce calmly set his glasses next to the keyboard, tore off his ridiculous poncho to reveal nothing more than a dress shirt and a pair of simple khakis beneath it, and stepped forward. "Stay down," he ordered, and even Captain America ducked at his words.

Natasha pulled at him with a hissed, "Clint, you heard the man," but he could not tear his eyes away from the spectacle in front of him. Bruce, simple, quiet up to this point Bruce, growled and raised his hands out to the side while Natasha, Steve, and the less injured agent provided cover fire, and then he simply grew.

Gone was the quiet scientist and in his place was a giant, hulking green thing. A giant, hulking green thing that was seriously ticked off and began to smash and destroy anything and everything that dared to get near him, shreds of wet fabric wafting in the wind behind him. Jack yipped to run out to join the fray, but was held in place by one very determined Captain America, who still tried to actively shield the others at the same time.

He watched as long as he could until he felt the world tipping to the side. He soon realized that it was him, not the world, and then his arm ached where it connected with the cement and then his head burst with pain right before he heard someone shout out, "Clint!" He had a moment to think, "Hey, that's me," right before everything turned a suffocating black.

* * *

He next conscious thought involved trying to sort out just where that annoying beeping was coming from and why he was laying on something scratchy and stiff and not soft cotton worn to be nearly threadbare. His entire body ached and breathing made his side flare with pain and the combination of the smell of antiseptic and the foggy dizziness of his mind told him he was in Medical and apparently on the good drugs.

"Come on, stay awake for us this time so we can play Guess Who," a voice teased.

He blinked his eyes open against the harsh lights of the room in time to see Steve glare at someone just off to the side and chide, "Tony..."

More on instinct than any conscious thought, he flipped off the figure that loomed in that direction and muttered, "Fuck you, Stark."

"He's back!" the man in question exclaimed, clapping his hands enthusiastically.

He would have flipped him off again, but some part of his mind insisted such a thing was bad form. He also didn't know if he had money for the swear jar, what with being laid up in the hospital and such, though he was fairly certain Tony would float him the change if needed.

He backed up and replayed that bit in his mind again, trying to make sense of it all. There were two realities and they were both fighting for space in his addled brain and neither one of them made a bucketload of sense on its own. He rubbed at his eyes as if that would help him sort out just where he was and what was real, but that just made the headache flare behind them and the IVs pull at the needles tucked just under his skin.

"Give it time," Natasha told him, soft voice accompanied by a gentle tug to his arm to pull it back down and rearrange the lines connected to him.

"How much do you remember?" Tony asked instead, always one to get right to the point.

He thought about it, actually actively tried to think about it and sort it all out, to himself if no one else. There was an explosion, the pull of a chute against his shoulders and the crash of his bones when he hit the ground. There was a gentle voice and hard work and a fancy car that needed repairs. There was a team, friends, laughing and joking around a bar while sipping drinks, and then that same team lurking in the background at a hole in the wall diner while one of them sat before him and openly took readings with something far more than a phone. There were men in black with guns trying to take them down and then a hidden lab and then shots and then the sweet old woman who had looked after him collapsing at his side.

"May!" he shouted, coming back to himself. "She was, she was shot and Bruce hulked out but she was already shot and... is she okay? Please tell me she survived." He was pleading and he didn't care. Someone needed to answer him else he was going to do something stupid and break out and hack the file and, damn, that was going to hurt, especially since he doubted any one of them would leave him alone any time soon and he really did hurt and they really were all standing in the way of every single escape route.

"The Granny with the shotgun?" Tony verified, earning more than a single look of disdain from the others.

Before Stark could play around for too long though, Thor replied, "The woman who assisted you lives. She is in need of care and has been awarded such at this time."

Clint released a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, ribs protesting the movement nearly as much as the muscles beneath them. He flopped back down against the crunchy pillows and sighed. "How bad?" he asked, needing to know.

"You or Granny?" Stark countered.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but it was Steve who answered first. "They got the bullet out, but she broke her arm in the fall. It will be a while before she is up and around again."

So it was bad, but it could have been so much worse. He didn't want to think of just how much worse but, then again, he didn't want to think of such things happening in the first place, so there was that.

A new yet familiar voice chimed in from the doorway to say, "I just checked on her. Aside from wanting to know how her 'boy' is doing, she is as well as can be expected." Bruce hesitated though, a definite tell that he was about to share something Clint wasn't going to like. The fiddling with the frames of his glasses also told him that but, eventually, he relented to say, "The chances of her fully recovering though, enough to run that place on her own, aren't good."

Clint pressed himself against the pillows and tried to make sense of that. Aunt May without the farm wouldn't be Aunt May at all. He barely knew her, this he understood at some level, but it also felt like she had been there for him his entire life. Or at least in his time of need, which was close enough to the same thing.

"What are they going to do with the place?" Natasha asked. He knew she probably had her suspicions, but was inquiring for his sake instead.

"She hasn't decided yet," Bruce shrugged. He wandered a little bit more into the room to offer a wan smile. He was dressed in a new pair of slacks and dress shirt, which didn't exactly help sort out how much time had actually passed as he likely would have needed a change after, well, his change. "She says she trusts your judgement. If you think the lab is safe is SHIELD's hands, she will let them have it. If you think they'll abuse what it holds, she will go back out there, hold them off with that shotgun of hers, and burn the place to the ground before she'll let another agent set foot in it."

"I like Granny," Tony mused, fond smile about his face. Louder, he asked, "So the place is in lock down for now?"

Steve answered first, the slightest hint of a blush to his skin when he admitted, "Somehow we must have locked the doors when the EVAC personnel were dealing with the wounded."

"It was the oddest thing, really," Natasha added dryly. She flipped a glint of metal in her hand before she slipped the key back into its hiding place. It took but a second, and her back was turned to the cameras when she did so, but the message was clear. Clint remembered the state of the doors and wondered just how much effort that had taken, super soldier or no, to accomplish.

Bruce didn't even have the decency to look surprised. He did, however, have the decency to offer the beginnings of a plan. "It will take some time to catalogue the experiments William had going on down there. And a fleet of agents storming in would only raise suspicions and endanger the town."

"But, say, a team assigned to the house? They could blend in without a fuss," Steve played along. He was all wide eyed and innocent blinks and Clint had a feeling the majority of this had been sorted out while he lay unconscious. "Take their time with the information, take care of the horses and maybe walk that dog of hers."

"And the chickens," Thor chimed in, grin wide.

Clint smiled at the thought of Jack surviving, and then smiled more when he realized what was going on. "May would need to show them how to take care of things," he mused, pressing his luck but not caring. "Just to make sure nothing was out of place or suspicious enough to draw attention."

"Plus the whole thing is wired to her biometrics," Tony added, as subtle as always. He probably could have hacked the system with his eyes closed, but the fact he wasn't even going to try spoke volumes.

"Of course, this is a conversation for when you are well enough to advise her again," Thor pointed out, and Clint snorted at the thought that he ever did such a thing, that the old woman ever needed anyone's advice save for her own.

The snort jostled his ribs which in turn jostled the injury to his side and it took several long moments of concentrated breathing for the world to come into focus again. "So that earlier question of how bad?" he winced.

He had his suspicions, this wasn't his first rodeo after all, but he wanted to hear it point blank laid out for him, for something to be certain and real and match up with what he himself could prove as facts. Steve, the ever dutiful team leader, did just that for him and said, "The bullet missed your vital organs, but nicked your rib. They removed a shard of it when they were sewing everything else up."

Well, that explained at least two of the sources of pain, so there was that. He raised his eyebrows and waited for the rest of it. Bruce looked ready to talk, but Steve continued, "Since they actually had you down and out, which is a rarity by the way, they repaired the tendon in your knee that didn't get set right after the crash. They also splinted your ankle, though it should only be a sprain."

"Baby," Natasha whispered, and he figured he deserved that after the Melbourne incident. He did give in and quirk a smile, though he wasn't sure if she saw it as he was busy staring at the bulky brace around his knee and the plasticine splint around his ankle, both visible beneath the blankets now that he both knew to look for them and was with it enough to do so.

The with it part was fading fast though, so he tried to actively concentrate when Bruce went on about other minor injuries that they found, some mostly healed, and that it looked like whoever took care of him did a decent job. "May was a nurse, she did what she could," he said, albeit a bit defensively. The fact that he had to actively try not to add the "Aunt" part to her name did not go unnoticed, not by him and likely not by at least one other person in the room.

"It was enough to keep you alive, and for that alone we are grateful," Bruce told him, and even managed to sound genuine.

Clint looked around the room and saw matching expressions on pretty much everyone's faces. It was a look of tiredness and relief and he was tempted to make a joke about them actually caring, but wasn't sure he was comfortable enough with everything just yet, wasn't sure if they were comfortable either given he didn't even know their names not so long ago.

Tony, of course, ruined it all by insisting, "I, for one, am not grateful. I mean, really, it was kind of nice not having to pick up after you for a while. The messes in the Tower must have gone down by, what, like a fifth or sixth while you were gone? And I didn't have to replace nearly as many targets or recalibrate the sensors just because you decided the pressure-sensitive rafters were a good place to fall asleep. Though the whole not having you around to save our asses was missed, I do have to admit that."

It looked like he was ready to go one for a while, so Clint forced a smirk that he really didn't have the energy for and cut him off with a, "I missed you too, asshole."

Tony beamed but, more importantly he quieted down and it felt like some of the pressure behind his eyes receded at just that. The lights were still too bright, and the beeping was still too loud, and the sheets were still too scratchy, and everyone seemed just a little too close, and he wondered if he remembered how to fake falling asleep, or if he should just give in and let his body do it for him and sort out his thoughts later when they hopefully left him alone.

They must have seen something in his expression though, or maybe they really did know him better than he wanted to admit, because there was a quiet shuffling sound that seemed to be headed towards the door. He opened eyes he didn't remember closing to find all but one person had taken noticeable steps back away from his side and closer to the exit.

"Sleep and heal," Thor bade. He held the door open for the others and was probably ready to physically remove Stark if need be, but Steve snagged the other man's arm when he walked by and tugged him out of the room.

He didn't fully hide his sigh of relief, but he really didn't hide his exclamation of surprise when he felt cold and metal circle his wrist. There was a clank as the other end of the cuffs were linked around the bedside and then Natasha stood there, arms crossed in front of her, daring him to say anything.

When he didn't immediately do so, her glare lessened slightly and she offered a deceptively mild, "Good show there."

"I'm not sure what you mean," he tried, and the glare returned.

"Which pretty much describes the problem," she replied. She stepped slightly away from the bed, but kept her arms crossed as she did so. She nodded towards the cuffs and said, "Clint Barton would be out of those by now. You're not you yet, but you're not quite him either." 

She wasn't asking, she was telling, and he had the feeling she knew just how right she was. That didn't stop him from admitting, "There's so much. So much to sort through. So much that seems real." He didn't know why he trusted her enough to say so, other than that she helped him with minimal pushing this far. From the moment she came to the house she knew who he was, but she let him sort it out on his own until there was no choice but to force the issue or risk his life.

"How much do you actually remember?" she asked. She leaned back slightly, judging, reading, watching for tells. There was a time he would have known how to foil such things. This was not that time.

He sighed and wished for one of those buttons that let him choose his own level of pain medication. He'd push that thing until he blissed out and blacked out and hope that maybe things would make sense again in the morning. A glance to the side showed there was a similar set up, but it was tucked up and away and out of reach, especially since it was on the side with his injury and the cuffs, and finagling his way to it would hurt a hell of a lot, if it were even possible. A glance at his companion showed she knew this and had probably set it up that way herself.

He finally gave in and began, "I remember the crash. I didn't know what actually crashed until I saw the Quinjet, and I didn't remember its name until I woke up just now. I remember us being chased and shot at right before, but I don't remember a lot immediately after." 

That part was a partial lie, and Natasha looked like she suspected as much. He relented and admitted, "I remember a hell of a lot of pain and crawling because I couldn't stand. I don't know where to or how far, but I remember seeing a beat up old truck and then waking up at May's."

"You're saying she lifted you? On her own? Twice?" Tasha asked doubtingly.

There was a flash of memory, of fragile arms around him trying to support him but hindering as much as helping, of pulling himself into the truck, of collapsing out of it and barely making it inside. 

"No, that was me. Mostly. I think," he told her. He knew he made a face as he tried to sort the next part out. "I also think I talked her out of bringing me to the hospital the next town over. I figured either SHIELD would find me soon enough, or whoever shot us down would. After that, things got kinda hazy."

"SHIELD never came," she guessed, but he shook his head.

"SHIELD came, but they were over a month late and by then they could have been AIM and I wouldn't have known the difference if it hadn't have been for you." The image of the villainous organization came unbidden. The image of Natasha being there for him was far more wanted and felt far more real.

She sat down lightly at the foot of his bed, careful not to jostle a thing. She tossed a loose strand of hair out of her face with a subtle movement when she turned to him and asked, "Would you like to hear our side of things?"

"Do I have a choice?" he countered even though that was exactly what he wanted. Maybe hearing the "truth" would spark more memories. Maybe those memories would tell him which reality was real and which was just pretend.

She didn't bother to answer him, or at least not his direct question, but instead simply and precisely explained, "We were on loan to a recon team due to the discovery of energy readings of an unknown source and suspicious activity in the area. Our transport was fired upon. I jumped with the junior agents as Lawrence was too injured to pull his chute. You were to follow. You radioed to say you were trying to pull up, then to say you were forced to jump and leave Diedres behind. I heard the explosion, saw neither it nor the resulting crash." She looked slightly haunted when she admitted, "We combed the area, but found no trace of you. After two weeks, the Director wanted to call it."

"But you wouldn't?" he guessed.

"The footage we were able to pull showed you jumping, but also showed a great deal of your main chute in flames when sections of it fell inside the hatch." She swallowed, and he wanted to thank her for daring to show this much emotion, daring to show enough of herself to help him find himself.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember. "The back up chute blew free, the force from the explosion sending me away from the jet and off course from the crash," he supposed. "May found me at the edge of the woods near the road and took me home."

The final word made her flinch, so he wasn't surprised when she offered a venomous, "The way we see it, the wife of a former freelance weapons maker witnessed an explosion while protecting her home with unregistered tech. She then obtained a key agent and kept him under false pretenses instead of contacting the proper authorities. All of this within eight months of losing her sole surviving son in a SHIELD sponsored raid of a corrupt shipping facility that may or may not have had ties to hostile organizations."

Clint blinked at the onslaught. When he finally found his words, the only thing he managed was an admittedly weak, "May is not bad." This he knew to the core of his very being. Whatever else she was, whatever ties her various family members had to various seedy organizations, she herself was simply not a bad person.

Natasha tilted her her to the side, considering. He knew there was a time when she would have taken his word over physical evidence to the contrary and he would have done the same for her. He also knew that time was likely not now. A day ago he couldn't remember his own name; to say his judgement may be clouded would be an understatement.

She surprised him though and conceded, "An argument could be made that a distraught widow took in an injured agent and attempted to nurse him back to health in memory of her recently deceased son, intentions pure if actions slightly faulty." She straightened and added, "And I believe Director Fury could be persuaded by this argument if applied correctly."

There was a quirk of her lips and he suspected he had just been played. She was testing him, again. Either the argument had already been made and Fury agreed, or the Director was the one who had made the argument in the first place.

"To be certain, however, she would need to be under surveillance by a trusted agent for a suitable period of time," she pretended to muse. "Given Captain Rogers' suggestion of a limited number of agents stationed at the homestead during reviewal and expungement of the lab, it may be prudent to assure such a trusted agent is selected for this duty."

He didn't even try to fight the smile that threatened to take over his face. "And I'm sure you have some suggestions for the agents required?" he prodded. He would be on light duty for a while, if approved for duty at all anytime soon. He had managed the farm with a bum leg pretty much on his own; the addition of helping hands would be a bonus. 

Her shoulders relaxed and she gave up the majority of the pretense of anger and suspicion and agreed, "You, me, and Banner at the very least. She knows us, somewhat, and trusts us more than others. Probably Sitwell or Rogers for a slightly less biased view."

"With Stark and Thor making regular visits?" he guessed.

"Contingent on the world not being in dire crisis, yes," she agreed. She offered a sly smile and added, "Those poor chickens will never know what hit them."

He smirked and corrected, "The town of Jackson will never know what hit them." So much for the subtle route. Maybe if they kept most everyone confined to the homestead it would limit the raised eyebrows and enemy attacks. Maybe the mix of SHIELD-life versus farm-life would give him time to sort out everything still battling for dominance in his head.

A yawn overtook him while he watched her head for the door. He was slightly surprised that she would leave him alone in the room. He was less surprised at the armed guard just barely within view of the window.

She paused, hand on the doorjamb and said, "It's good to have you back, Barton."

"Hey, aren't you missing something?" he asked, punctuating the question with the rattle of metal on metal. She looked like she was going to disagree, right up until she saw the cuffs resting in the palm of his hand.

She smiled, real and true, and shook her head. "Not anymore," she told him and he thought, just for a moment, that the definition of home was a fluid and finicky thing.

He watched her go and leaned back against the pillows, determined to explore that definition to its fullest, and knowing that, whatever he discovered, he was far from alone.

 

End.


End file.
